


White Rabbit

by GenericDemon



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hospitalization, How Do I Tag, I am not a psychologist, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Medical Inaccuracies, Mental Health Issues, NOTHING IS AS IT SEEMS, Not Canon Compliant, Not Really Character Death, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Tags Contain Spoilers, Triggers, Unreliable Narrator, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name, What-If, connor wants answers, hospitals are not this bad usually, this is a purposeful portrayal with inaccuracies and exaggeration, two different major settings, what is real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-09-21 15:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17046335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericDemon/pseuds/GenericDemon
Summary: Connor doesn't stop Amanda in time.Instead of witnessing an end to the Android Revolution, Connor wakes up in the year 2018 as an inpatient at Kamski Psychiatric Center with symptoms of depersonalization and acute psychosis.He begins to see familiar faces everywhere he turns and is plagued by lucid dreams that leave him with more questions than answers.Nothing is as it seems.___________________________________________________Note: This is not a 100% accurate portrayal of psychiatric hospitals, medicines, doctors, nurses, or practices.





	1. 3 Libras

* * *

* * *

It is cold. Connor knows something is deeply wrong when he feels the sub zero chill sink its fangs into him.

 

He isn't supposed to feel it. Warnings pop up as he feels the thirium in his arftifical veins pump slower and slower, coagulating at a painful pace.

 

It hurts. His first brush with pain and it happens to be within his own processor, an once familiar simulation now hidden behind a fierce blizzard. After all the times he's been hit, shot, or died- this is the only instance in which he feels anything. Ironic, that it's not even real.

 

He presses one freezing limb to his body as he uses the other to shield his face. He grips the side of his rib plating tightly through his jacket as if to transfer warmth to his fingertips. It's a useless gesture. A human gesture. A human comfort. A silly notion, as if a small palm raised towards the wind could ever stop such a force.

 

It's already so hard to move, he is shuffling more and more as he continues forward. His joints have lost considerable mobility and warnings continue to flash in the corners of his vision. A countdown blares at him and he can feel his body struggle to regulate its core temperature. His body shakes so violently from involuntary shivers that his teeth chatter together hard enough to ache his jaw.

 

Amanda is gone, disappearing into the angry wind like a specter. Her words have left him nothing, just as the barren wasteland before him leaves him nothing. The Zen garden is no longer recognizable, all life has fled it and the river has frozen solid. Soon, he will be frozen solid along with it.

 

Connor can feel the outside world as if it is an impression, an afterthought that barely whispers in the back of his processor. He can feel as he unholsters the pistol and like a mirage he can barely make out Markus’s back. It dips in and out of visibility and Connor struggles to blink away the picture with stiff eyelids.

 

He can hear Markus address the crowd of liberated androids in the same breadth that his audio components are deathly silent to the violent gusts.

 

Connor feels the ground slowly slope upward as he continues to shuffle. His shoe catches on the cobblestone of the bridge and he stumbles forward. He reaches his arms out to steady himself and the pain is nearly unbearable. His elbows and shoulder blades scream in protest, the artificial joints and muscles nearly refusing to move.

 

He is still standing. His chest heaves with effort and he can't stop the small whines that leave his mouth with each exhale. He doesn't need the oxygen and the air does nothing but, begin to freeze his body faster from the inside out. It's so human, so utterly without logic but, he cannot stop himself.

 

Connor crests the top of the small bridge, a dim light draws him through the blizzard.

 

He can still hear Markus. He can hear his words. Such splendid and incredible words that they call an entire people to rally behind his cause. He can see as he raises the pistol and levels it at the back of the leader's head. No one moves to stop him. They stand in front of him, beside their fearless leader.

 

Distress fuels Connor to move faster towards the light. Elijah Kamski's words begin to mingle with the voice of Markus in a strange harmony. A distant memory, a reminder of a way out.

 

The light beckons him forward and Kamski's face swims in his vision now, obscuring the image of Markus but, never replacing the blizzard and it's single beacon of hope.

 

He slips down the incline suddenly, falling down the length of the bridge. His legs can no longer support him. Desperate, he pulls himself through the snow on frostbitten hands. His fingers furrow deeply into the expanse of white and he notes absently that the skin on his hands has begun to fall off to reveal frozen thirium and plasteel.

 

He can no longer feel the pain in his legs. Instead a disturbing numbness has overtaken them and he drags the limbs behind him like dead weight. His arms are getting heavier with each push and pull and cold seeps into his chest where it contacts the ground. His thirium pump is dangerously close to reaching the freezing point.

 

The light is closer.

 

His left arm stops functioning and Connor can no longer blink, his eyelids have frozen.

 

He drags himself onwards with his right arm and a keening whine escapes blue lips. The LED at his temple blares a steady red and if not for his near immobility he would be at threat of self-destruction.

 

He thinks warmer thoughts. He thinks of Sumo's warm fur. He thinks of Hank's warm hand settled on his shoulder. He thinks of Markus' warm smile. He thinks of Jericho's warm trust. A heavy sadness settles in him. He will never see any of that ever again. He will never experience new warmths.

 

His right arm tremors as he reaches forward. His fingers curl into an involuntary fist and he drives it into the snow.

 

Anger brings a brief flood of heat to his body. He is angry at Amanda. He is angry at Kamski. Angry at CyberLife. Angry at himself. The anger does little to aide him.

 

For a brief moment, he wishes he was still machine.

 

The light is so close now, it glares down at him through the slurry of snow. He can no longer lift his head and his right arm remains outstretched in front of him just touching the base of the light source. His knuckles brush the metal, numb and unable to sense the surface but, he knows he made it.

 

This is the back door.

 

He can't move, his vision is overtaken by warnings and a timer with a few seconds left on it. If not for the cold, he would have tears running down his cheeks. His breathing is quick and shallow. He knows he is dying from the android equivalent of hypothermia. Except, he doesn't feel an overwhelming heat as a human would. Instead, he feels tired for the first time in his life.

 

His vision has darkness creeping in from the corners and he can still see Markus down the sight of his pistol. There is no tremor in his arm.

 

He can feel his finger tighten on the trigger and the countdown hits one second.

 

The world crashes to black and a gunshot rings out.

 


	2. Waking Up the Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't @ me about my poor grammar, please. I'm not a writer but, I needed to write this to satisfy a deep desire to see this trope in the dbh fandom.

"Connor.”

 

A gentle voice cuts through the black. Connor knows it. He's heard it once before but, the black persists and no face pops up in his vision as it usually does if he has heard the voice before.

 

“Connor.”

 

The voice is louder. Still, Connor has no information to tell him who it belongs to. The software he uses to identify individuals is not running. He should be worried that something is wrong with his processor. Instead, the abyss lures him back into unconsciousness. He thinks nothing of the utter absence of a systems check list or the lack of a wake up protocol being run.

 

A hand gently touches his shoulder.

 

Connor is violently thrust into consciousness at the touch. Instead of the dull warmth he typically feels through the sensors on his skin, it is a brand placed hot and live against his shoulder. He can feel something touching his legs and arms, it's soft and itchy in the same breadth. He kicks the offending object off on an impulsive whim and he can feel as chilled air hits his skin.

 

His eyes snap open to a bright and blurry world, his optical components seem to be severely malfunctioning, as well. He frantically looks about before he tries to initiate a software scan but, nothing happens. Connor doesn't notice that he is gripping his shoulder and has wedged himself into the corner where the bed meets the wall.

 

It feels as if all his sensors have been turned up to the highest settings while his primary senses have been toned down severely.

 

“Hey, sweetie.”

 

He looks over towards the voice. It's the AX400, Kara.  

 

“K…” The name dies in his throat on the first syllable. Connor furrows his brow and digs his nails into his shoulder tighter. He tries to pull up a diagnostic on his vocal component but, nothing appears.

 

A hand grabs his own, again it feels like a brand of fire. The skin so warm against his own it's surreal and Connor has never felt anything so real before.

 

Something cool is pushed into his palm. He looks at the cup of water now in his hands. Its temperature is so different from the hand that still touches his own.

 

“There you go, you must be parched.” Kara steps away from him, her warmth leaving to be replaced by the chill of the water through thin paper.

 

For a moment Connor doesn't move but, slowly he releases his grip on his shoulder and swings his feet over the edge of the bed- he's in a bed he realizes numbly. He grips water with both hands and against his better judgement, he drinks it.

 

He doesn't need it but, it will not harm his systems.

 

When the liquid hits his tongue it does not bring up an instant relay of data as he expected. Nothing pops up in his vision but, a sudden urge overtakes him and he quickly finishes the water.

 

A small voice in the back of his mind tells him it is thirst. A louder voice screams at him that something is horribly wrong.

 

Kara takes the cup from his hands, “You really should hydrate more, Connor.”

 

She hands Connor a pair of shoes with velcro fasteners. Mechanically, he puts them on his feet and Connor can no longer feel the cold tile sap the warmth from the soles of his feet.

Connor opens his mouth to ask something profound but, all that leaves is a quiet, “What?”

 

Kara gives him a patient look as if she was used to explaining and re-explaining things many times a day. “It’s the ativan. Dr. Stern said it could make you very dehydrated, among other side effects.”

 

Connor tries to pull up the drug in a search on the internet, again nothing happens. His vision is still a bit blurry and there is no indication that any of his systems are online. He wants to yell, to demand what's happening and know where he is. Instead, he follows the domestic android as if he's done this routine many times before. He can't remember ever doing anything like this. Oddly enough, he cannot even remember how he ended up here. His most immdiate memory seems to be corrupted and all Connor can discern from it is an overwhelming chill. 

 

He stands from the bed with Kara's help he does not need. Although, Connor notes a slight tremor in his legs and a weakness in the joints that should not exist. He doesn't bother running a diagnostic this time. 

The name Dr. Stern catches his attention. Just as he could not pinpoint Kara's voice, he can not figure out why the name Stern is familiar.

 

Connor decides his best course of action is to resolve the severe malfunction in his systems and assess the situation. Nothing in his memory is similar to this. He's unable to access memory files with any precision and therefore there is no footage in his memory files he can review.

He has no idea why Kara is here and he is tempted to ask the other android if she is experiencing malfunctions, too.

Instead, he allows her to gently lead him to the door. He feels instictually that putting up any protest could lead to a more confusing situation. 

He takes in all the information about the room as he can with his limited senses. The room is small, with a single bed pushed into the corner, a sink directly across and a window above the bed. Connor notices a few pictures hung on the walls but, he can't make them out with his damaged optics.

 

Connor studies Kara then and notices that she seems to accept his silence easily, as if it is common and instead fills it with her own soft voice. In his intense scrutinizing he doesn't hear much of what Kara says.

 

“-kus was considerably upset but, he seems to be handling himself much better these days. Especially since-”

 

Kara stops abruptly, her hand leaving his back where she was guiding him gently.

 

“Oh, your glasses.” Kara laughs softly to herself as she heads deeper into the room. Connor watches as she retrieves something off the night table.

 

Connor stands in the doorway, his mind is racing and more questions stack up on his mental list, “I don't wear-”

 

Before he finishes the sentence he takes the glasses from Kara as if on autopilot and places them on his face. Suddenly, the blurriness of the room corrects itself and he can see the apologetic smile on Kara's face with clarity.

 

“That's better, huh? Completely my bad, it's been a hectic morning.” Kara explains as she takes up her place beside Connor and leads him out of the room.

 

He touches the rim of the glasses, they're round and rest on his face with an unfamiliar weight. Yet, they hold a quiet familiarity to them. He feels the same familiarity when they enter the hallway. It is painted a soft yellow with murals of abstract blooming flowers in soft pinks creeping along the walls. The sight brings up no memories but, a soft whisper of something he can not make out.

 

He hears the distant hum of voices with no real clarity and constant overlapping. He shakes his head slightly as if it will fix the issue with his audio components. It of course, does nothing.

 

Something begins to pool in his abdomen. At first, he thinks perhaps there is something wrong with the components there or even his thirium pump. It is sharp and uncomfortable, and seems to be getting worse the more he dwells on it.

 

Kara has been talking with him softly as she continues down the hallway. He no longer hears her words. Something is wrong. He looks over, sees the movement of her lips but, no words leave them.

 

The world seems to slow as they approach a pair of open double doors. A harsh breathing noise in tandem with a loud ringing is all Connor hears.

 

The feeling is moving from his abdomen up his spine leaving a chill in its wake.

 

He doesn't notice as Kara leaves him standing in the doorway. All he can see is the haunting image of Markus smiling and waving at him from across a cafeteria. Josh and North sit beside him, looking at Connor with similar enthusiasm. His eyes move then, to the left of Jericho's fearless leader where a ghost grins at him.

 

A flash of a body sprawled out on some distance rooftop replaces the cafeteria for a brief moment.

 

Simon is alive.

 

Like the swift fall of a guillotine blade, all noise comes back. Too loud and too jarring. It's wrong.

 

A burning, restriction rises like a vice to grip his throat. He raises a shaking hand with sinking understanding and places it on his chest.

 

Where there should be nothing, a heart beats a fierce staccato rhythm.

  
  
  



	3. I Know I'm A Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh, graphic description of vomitting at the beginning of this.  
> Be aware.

Connor hits the linoleum hard as he drops to his knees. He doesn't have time to process the jarring sensation before he doubles over a hand clutching his stomach.

 

His other hand grabs at the solid ground as if there is something there that will offer relief. His knuckles slide uselessly against the smooth floor. His hand continues it's futile spasm against the ground and he promptly loses the contents of his stomach.

 

He knew what vomiting looked like. He knew what it sounded like. He had all the information on how the process took place. Witnessing Hank vomiting up a stomach of alcohol could never prepare him for what it actually felt like.

 

It burns something fierce. It is nothing like the bruising pain he feels from his abused kneecaps. It's different and he can't catch his breath.

 

He can't breath and his lungs scream for oxygen. His body is heaving in a ruthless pattern and he can hear his own retching. It's disturbing and for a moment Connor believes he might die. Shutting down isn't an option now, there will be no new bodies to be uploaded to. That thought alone drives him to panic more.

 

Stomach acid burns his throat and his mouth. He can't stop the tears that gather in his eyes and his heaving slows until he is left panting.

 

He looks at the ground, his glasses have nearly slipped off of his nose and it divides his vision between blurry and clear.

 

His mouth hangs open as he takes in shallow raspy breaths and he can feel a viscous strand of saliva slip past his lips.

 

Connor's nostrils burn along with his throat and on reflex he swallows loudly as if it will chase away the pain.

 

He remembers shutting down- or as close to it as one can get in a simulation. It hits him with the force of a car crash. He didn't make it to the back door. He didn't exit the program. He became Amanda's puppet. CyberLife's tool to end a revolution.

 

Is this just another simulation? A line of code activated to keep him occupied and complacent? It feels so real but, so did the deathly cold as it gripped his systems in the garden.

 

It feels too real. From the dull pain that aches in where his knees hit the ground to his esophagus on fire. He can feel the linoleum beneath his fingertips, he can feel where it is worn and grooved over time. It's not just sensors and an artificial sense of touch. It's there, solid and more real than anything he ever felt as an android.

 

“Take deep breaths, okay.” A hand runs soothing circles along his back. Connor doesn't know how long it's been there but, he is grateful for the small comfort. It seems to lessen the spasms in his chest and he manages a deep inhale.

 

All Connor thinks as he takes breath after breath is that, being human is messy and painful.

 

The same person continues to comfort him and Connor finally gets a look at the source of the encouraging words and soothing gestures.

 

It's Chris Miller, officer at the Detroit Police Department. He’s in white scrubs and it is so different from his usual police uniform that Connor almost doesn't recognize him.

 

He knows his face. He couldn't forget, even with his current lack of a supercomputer for a brain. He remembers the reverent look in his eyes when he thanked Connor for saving his life on the terrace. It was the first time anyone had ever thanked him.

 

As if his mouth suddenly has a mind of its own he rasps out a soft, “thank you… thank you.”

 

He knows he's repeating the word unnecessarily and he continues whispering it like a mantra. Even as he gets shakily to his feet he can feel as his lips form the words silently. Even when his lips cease to move the words repeat in his head.

 

Chris gives him one last comforting pat on the shoulder making sure Connor can stand on his own two feet now, “Nausea is normal but, if it gets worse let Dr. Stern know, okay?”

 

As if an afterthought, Chris adds, “Don't worry about the mess just, be sure to eat something light.”

 

The DPD officer turned orderly flashes him a comforting smile before moving to retrieve a biohazard kit.

 

Connor pushes his glasses back up his face and runs shaky hands down his plain t-shirt, thankfully absent of any bile. He adjusts his appearance as he would in his CyberLife uniform.

 

He needs to command the situation as an Android. Not a human, despite his current circumstances. Unnecessary emotions and actions would only compromise his objective.

 

If he still ran on lines of code, small lines of text would have appeared in his vision.

 

‘Gather Information’

‘Interrogate Markus and Company’

‘Find A Way Out’

 

He had to make it a mental priority rather than a tangible one, a mere thought instead of anything concrete. It was just another obstacle of his current state.

 

He surveys the cafeteria and sees that nearly everyone has turned to face him. Connor has never had a reason to feel embarrassed since he became Deviant. He never had a chance.

 

Those eyes cause heat to rush to his ears and he casts his gaze to the floor. Weak, he thinks. Human. He can almost see Amanda's disapproving frown.

 

He stamps the embarrassment down, overriding it with determination and a mounting sense of frustration. He does not have time for embarrassment.

 

Connor retrieves a plastic tray as if he intends to follow Chris's advice. He quickly surveys the room for watchful eyes before he beelines for Markus' table.

 

He's not hungry despite just emptying an already very empty stomach. The tray remains in his hands and the only purpose it serves now is to give the appearance that he actually intends to eat something.

 

The leaders of Jericho sit at a small round table near the back of the room, adjacent to a hallway different from the one in which he entered the commissary.

 

There is a chair between Simon and North as if they had been expecting Connor the whole time. Based on their expressions when he first walked into the room, he concludes that the chair is indeed for him.

 

It is across from Markus and provides the perfect vantage point to see the leader's face and all it's microexpressions.

 

Connor slams the tray down rather loudly, startling Simon and receiving a brief glare from North. Josh raises an eyebrow as if in question but, continues to eat his breakfast regardless.

 

Markus looks concerned and reaches across the table to place a hand on Connor's shoulder but, he moves out of reach. Now, is not the time for accepting comfort.

 

Connor's thought process is currently high on adrenaline and he doesn't know how to channel all the energy except into a fierce determination to understand what's happening.

He can feel himself lose his grip on whatever patience he has but, he steels himself against the encroaching frustration. So much new stimulus has left him worn thin in a terribly short amount of time.

  


“Are you okay?” Markus' voice is soft and empathetic, as it always is

 

Connor throws caution to the wind. He tests the waters of this reality's version of the Jericho leader, “No, Markus, I'm not.”

 

“If you're still feeling sick I can-”

 

Connor cuts Markus off. It seems that this Markus is just as concerned and caring. There is almost no difference it seems, except for his eyes- both irises are green. He needs something else, a different approach to better gauge the responsiveness of this simulation.

 

If it even is one, a small voice whispers.

 

“You should be dead.” He doesn't know why he says it. He could ask so many more productive questions. Questions that would actually lend themselves to deciphering reality but, the memory of his own hand aiming a pistol at the back of Markus' head is too fresh.

 

“Connor”, Markus meets North's troubled gaze beside Connor for a brief moment.

 

“Do you know where you are, right now?”

 

His eyes hold pity and a long suffering tiredness as if he's been through this before. Josh shifts uncomfortably, as if he wants to get up and flee the situation but, he remains seated. Simon bows his head and stares at his hands in his lap, practically willing himself to disappear by not moving.

 

Connor ignores the behavior in favor of giving Markus a fruitful answer.

 

“Judging by my surroundings I am in some kind of healthcare facility, most likely psychiatric or rehabilitative in nature. Currently, I am in the commissary of said institution.” It is the first android-esque sentence he's said since waking up. It feels more natural, the detached nature of it is comforting and echos with remnants of his social programming. The more distance he can put between himself and his humanity the better.

 

“Connor, what year is it?” North addresses him now. Her voice is not demanding but, it commands the same weight as if she is giving Connor an order.

 

Connor answers immediately, without forethought or pretense. Following an order, like any other android would.

 

“2038.”

 

Josh leaves at this moment, his chair scraping against the linoleum. Connor observes him passively from his peripherals.

Connor watches as Markus tries to hold his composure but, he seems to be caught in an internal battle between speaking and staying silent.

 

It is not Markus who responds first but, North.

 

“It's 2018.”

 

Connor's heart drops into his stomach and it threatens to make him nauseous all over again. It makes too much sense. All of the technology and architecture he's seen is not reminiscent of the decade he knows. It is outdated and obsolete. He should have paid more attention.

 

“Maybe”, Markus speaks up now, his voice quieter than Connor has ever heard it, “you should talk to one of the nurses.”

 

Simon remains silent but, he looks at Connor with concern and sympathy.

“We only want what's best for you, Con.” The unfamiliar nickname leaves North's mouth as she takes over for Markus. Her voice does not waver as she continues, “If you just want to talk through it right now-”

 

Connor doesn't let her finish. He's heard enough and he knows where he can find more answers. A part of him regrets being so rude to those offering help but, if it's just a simulation than it didn't matter.

 

He spots the sign for reception pointing down the nearby hallway. He follows the arrow and doesn't look back to see if anyone follows him.

 

He weaves around orderlies, nurses and the occasional patient. Each one greets him kindly but, he does not return the gesture. He doesn't stop to ponder that some of those faces he passes, he's seen before. He knows them. 

 

He's too preoccupied with his objective. He knows a reception area, especially for hospitals and similar facilities, has pamphlets and information for new patients. And in this case, it could give Connor just the information he needs.

 

Connor follows the placards on the walls. With one last turn around the corner, he steps into a cheerful and inviting reception center. It's the same soft yellow as the hallways. A yellow that was starting to aggravate him the more he saw of it.

 

He moves towards the receptionist desk, spotting the information pamphlets stacked neatly there. He's so close to his objective  when he notices the figures behind the desk and nearly backpedals in shock.

 

He stands completely still as if facing down a predator with motion-based vision. His logic screams at him but, he can't seem to get his feet to move.

 

Behind the desk a Chloe types away as she carries on a conversation with a man in scrubs leaning casually beside her.

 

The man turns his head to face him with that unmistakable smile. He uncrosses his arms and moves out from behind the desk towards where Connor stands stock-still.

 

Everything from the scar across the bridge of his nose to the way he had his arms crossed, there was no doubt in Connor's mind.

 

It was Gavin Reed walking towards him.

 

Suddenly, things felt less like a simulation and more akin to a nightmare.

 

* * *

 


	4. Counting Sheep

“Well, speak of the devil and he shall appear.”

 

Gavin comes to stand directly in front of him at a reasonable distance opposed to his typical too close for comfort stance.

 

The smile is easy going rather than menacing and his tone is teasing. There is no malice, no bite or bark to his words. No ‘fucking plastic prick’, ‘asshole’, or 'toaster’.

 

The man even looks more approachable and less intimidating in his maroon scrubs.

 

It's pure civility that leaves Gavin's mouth and that scares Connor. It's unfamiliar and he has no idea how to approach it.  

 

Gavin turns back to look at the receptionist, “Chloe here, was just telling me your old man dropped off some books for you on his way to work.”

 

It's odd to see Kamski's personal androids nowhere near the man himself but, Connor is too preoccupied with the bigger anomaly in the room.

 

Connor has yet to move or say anything. He simply stares and studies, uncomprehending of what he sees before him.

 

Gavin accepts this with an air of ease and continues the one-sided conversation as be grabs something off of the desk, “Some of this isn't considered appropriate reading material because of all the supposed drug references.” Gavin forms air quotes around the word drug, “but, I won't tell anyone. The guidelines for books are bullshit anyways.”

 

Chloe gives Gavin a brief look of disapproval but makes no comment otherwise.

 

Two paperback novels are offered to him and Connor follows them up the length of Gavin's outstretched arm until he meets the man's eyes.

 

The curse is familiar and so is the flippant attitude but, this is certainly not the same Gavin Reed. Those eyes are too kind and his voice lacks its accusatory edge. 

 

Connor tentatively grabs the books as if moving too fast will suddenly shatter the mirage before him.

 

“Don't know why he dropped off those two, I'm sure you've read them before in school or something.” Gavin muses more to himself than the silent Connor in front of him.

 

He's completely sidetracked and his objectives have been forgotten, something that would have never been a problem if he still had a processor, not a brain. 

 

He glances at the books curiously in his hands, they're both by Lewis Carroll; _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass._

 

Odd that someone would give him children's fiction novels. From what limited knowledge he has about the books, it is very fitting. Alice fallen down the rabbit hole into Wonderland just as he seems to have taken a tumble of his own.

 

He quirks his lip at the thought.

 

“Well, I'm off.” Gavin rocks back on his heels for a moment, “Nice talking to you, Chloe.” He moves past Connor, offering him a small nod of acknowledgment as he closes the distance, “Connor.”  

 

Connor watches as the man's back disappears around the corner and then turns his attention back to the desk. Curioser and curioser. 

 

He tucks the books under his arm and moves forward to grab one of the neatly stacked pamphlets. The front reads, _Kamski Psychiatric Center_ in a crisp utilitarian font. Fitting, Connor thinks, that Kamski would be in charge of this place. He may not be the CyberLife CEO but, it seemed he still held power over Connor's life no matter the reality. 

 

“Did you need something?” His head snaps up to meet blue eyes.

 

Connor is almost tempted to look around, only familiar with seeing the ST200 models in close proximity to each other. He knows she isn't an android, just as he knows Gavin is not an unpleasant person in this simulation. Her face is so similar to the one he aimed a gun at that seeing the difference is difficult. The distressed face of a Chloe a world away merges with the calm one before him.

 

“No…” He whispers the word. He is distracted, seeing a reality that is no longer his own flash before him. “Sorry, I'll be on my way.”

 

He can feel Amanda's disapproval once more as if she still lingers in his non-existent programming. So easily discouraged. So easily spun around and led away from his mission. Pathetic. 

 

“Alright then. If you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask.”  Her dismissal is kind and cordial, almost scripted in nature. It's uncannily similar to how the android at Kamski's had greeted Hank and Connor.

 

He glances at her right temple as she turns back to face her computer. There is no LED blinking there.

 

It's unnatural in the way that not seeing it is as if Chloe is missing something vital to her very being. If there were a small spinning circle perhaps it would bring the pieces together. Chloe remains stubbornly human.

 

An overwhelming lethargy pulls at his muscles suddenly. It tugs relentlessly and Connor feels as if gravity has suddenly increased exponentially. He needs to sit down or risk being pulled to the floor by the unknown force.

 

He traces his footsteps back the way he came, thankful that at least his memory of the route to his room is faithful. He passes through the mostly empty commissary. He walks over the spot where he vomited. The floor is a shiny off-white, no trace or evidence left there. It's as if it never happened.

 

He moves down the hall slowly, too slowly. His elbow brushes softly against the wall where he nearly leans into it. He catches himself before he loses his footing completely.

 

Frustration creeps up on him and he feels his mind grow loud with it. It's a din that drives away the blanketing fog settling over his mind and threatening to pull heavy eyelids shut.

 

He must stay awake. Androids don't sleep. Androids don't sleep. He repeats it like a mantra. It does nothing to stop the inevitable clutches of slumber.

 

Connor nearly collapses onto the bed and lays on his side, back to the wall. He stares at the wall. Blinkning slowly. It's the same yellow. That dull eggshell of a color. He casts his eyes away sick of seeing it. His eyes catch a glimpse of blue where he can just see over the edge of the bed. He  has enough energy to grab the book where it has fallen onto the ground just below the bed.

 

He pulls it up towards him. Slowly, inch by inch as if the book ways a ton. He looks at the cover with a detached sense of awareness. A comical scene of Alice at the Mad Hatter's table is suddenly Connor's entire world.

 

The pamphlet lays forgotten on the side table along with his glasses. He can't remember when he took them off. He can't remember getting back to his room. He can't remember.

 

The bed is comfortable though, and chases away the worried thoughts like dogs snapping at the heels of a fox.

 

He brushes a slow thumb over the cover. He stares at the rabbit as if it holds all the answers. It is just a silly white thing that sits at the table set for tea and gazes out at the viewer. It gazes at him. Looking at him with it's toothy grin and dull eyes. Taunting him or just as curious, Connor doesn't know.

 

The book falls from his hand onto the bed with a soft thump. His eyes focus on his empty hand for a moment wondering why it let go. He looks past the fingers curled limply around empty air.

 

A figure stands against the wall in front of him. He knows it.

 

RK800 is emblazoned in stark white against warm grey. It's blurry but, he knows the shapes; those letters and numbers form. They are unmistakable. Unforgettable.

 

He blinks slowly. So, slow that for a moment he believes he's gone into standby. His eyes open though, just enough to see as the figure crouches down next to his bedside.

 

It's his face that looks back at him, so close he can see every detail without struggle. His eyes focus on the bullet hole in its forehead. He watches as thirium drips slowly from the wound. Down It drips a blue river running. It drips down the bridge of its nose, across its lips and finally gathers on its chin.

 

He can hear each drop as it hits the floor. Louder than his own heartbeat. Louder than his breathing. Louder than the static in his ears.

 

His eyes shut just as a hand reaches for him.

 


	5. Hats off to the Bull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know how to form a coherent sentence but, here we are.

Connor is outside Hank's house. It is dark and the only light comes from the porch, casting a warm yellow glow that stretches out like a golden shadow from the porch to his feet.

 

He's not wearing shoes and the cuffs of his pants are wet as if he's been walking in shallow water. However, the ground is dry beneath his toes and he curls them against the sharp asphalt. There's pain and Connor knows he is human. 

 

He looks at his hands, turning them over and examining them in the light. He imagines he can see the bones and blood vessels through the skin. He closes his hand into a fist, feeling his nails dig into the soft flesh with a tentative bite. 

 

When he uncurls his fingers a silver coin glints in the low light. It is his and his alone. Not even Amanda can take it from him. 

 

The door creaks open but, no light comes from within. It is a yawning abyss that not even the porch light can penetrate. There is no sign of Hank or Sumo. 

 

Connor places the coin safely in his jacket pocket and steps forward. He moves across the grass and feels each blade as it tickles the soles of his feet. The soft crunch of each step is the only sound in the air tonight. Not even the crickets dare to sing. 

 

He stands under the porch light and stares into darkness. Nothing stirs and the coin rests heavy in his pocket. 

 

He steps forward, leaving the safety of the light. It's protective aura blinks out of existence as soon as he crosses the threshold. A blue radiance surrounds him but, it does nothing to shed light on the surrounding.

 

Connor looks down at the light. It is strong and steady, it emanates from the markers on his jacket that indicate to the world he is an android. He touches the armband, watching as his fingers conceal the light. It shines still, steady and true as if his hand blocked nothing. 

 

“Connor.” 

 

Amanda's voice drifts like a phantom to his ears. He treks further into the nothing, chasing after a ghost. 

 

“Amanda!” 

 

His voice cuts through the silence, so loud that it lingers in the air before being swallowed up. He waits for a response, his heartbeat thudding louder with each beat and reaching a crescendo that forces Connor to cover his ears.

 

The noise is from within. It can't be muffled or dulled and it only grows in intensity. He presses his palms harder against his ears and bends over nearly double at the onslaught. He opens his mouth to scream and closes his eyes against the pain. 

 

Just as it becomes unbearable, it stops. 

 

“Take a seat.” 

 

Connor hears the voice as if it is right in front of him. He opens his eyes and lowers his hands tentatively. He does not know if the sound will return. What he sees before him makes him yearn for the darkness once more.

 

Amanda sits in a high backed chair, legs crossed and dressed in the same outfit she wears in the Zen Garden. Her face is empty, her eyes hidden behind a shadow that obscures them. The only facial feature visible is her mouth. She does not smile or frown. It is a straight line across her face that holds no ulterior motive. 

 

She waits expectantly, patient and with her hands clasped in her lap, “There is nothing to be afraid of.” 

 

Contrary to her words, Connor can feel his heart pound behind his sternum. It is viscerally uncomfortable as if his chest is suddenly too small to contain it. He wants to lift a hand to his chest, to soothe the heart beneath it by guarding it with an extra layer of flesh and bone. Instead, his hand moves to his pocket gripping the coin as it burns hot against his skin. 

 

“Please, I insist.” Amanda raises an open palm to gesture at the chair beside Connor. 

 

It is suddenly there, suspended in the darkness. Against his better judgement, he takes a seat. One hand still touches the coin, obsessively running his thumb along the tiny raised edges of the metal. 

 

“Connor.” It is not a question but, it demands an answer. 

 

“Amanda, I'm sorry.” A chill creeps up his spine, he doesn't know why he feels guilty. There's no reason to. He should feel angry, betrayed, and used. The feeling persists and coils, a sleeping serpent around his throat and slithering below his heart. 

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Amanda purrs softly as if comforting a wounded animal. “You only ever wanted to be the perfect son.” 

 

The serpent in his chest tightens, constricting into a knot of confusion, “I don't understand. I'm- I don't have a father. I was made by CyberLife.” 

 

He stumbles over the words at first but, says the last sentence with finality. There is no room for argument in his mind. Perhaps, given long enough as a deviant he might have considered Hank a father, one day. He certainly never saw himself as a son to Amanda. The notion of him trying to prove himself to her is foreign. He only ever obeyed her orders and even then he failed at that.  

 

“Perhaps, you're right.” Amanda muses and a small smile quirks the corner of her lips. It makes his stomach turn. He doesn't want to hear anything else she has to say. He makes to stand on his feet, hands gripping the arm rests and face set with a grave determination. 

 

He is pulled violently back down into the chair. White roses sprout from vines that suddenly hold him prisoner. The thorns dig ruthlessly into his skin, cutting easily through his clothes and he can see red stains begin to spread on his chest and forearms. It hurts. Puncture wounds having a very different breed of pain than any other he's experienced. It does not ebb and wane, it is constant and radiates from the source causing his hands to shake. It only drives the thorns deeper. 

 

“Stop.” He chokes out, kicking his feet uselessly and trying to twist away from the pain. He only succeeds in driving the points deeper.

 

“Amanda, please!” He digs his nails into soft velvet. He still can't see her eyes but, her mouth twists with cruelty.

 

“You bleed red, Connor.” She stands up towering over him, her face entirely obscured by shadows. If he could, he would shrink away from the sight.

 

Connor’s whole body shakes with the overwhelming sensation of pain and he manages two words between clenched teeth, “You're wrong.” 

 

“Am I?” Amanda runs a gentle finger along his right temple. Connor tries to twist his head away from the touch only to have his face roughly grabbed by the chin. Fingers dig with bruising force into his jaw and wrench his head up. The touch makes him feel like an object, a toy meant to be manipulated. 

 

“Decide who you are.” The cryptic warning is punctuated by a tightening of the vines. Connor can see the white of the roses stained red with blood in his peripherals. His hands tremor violently and his vision is blurry. 

 

“Or, it will be decided for you.” She releases his jaw roughly and disappears into the darkness with a parting message. 

 

“Do not disappoint me, again.” 

 

He fruitlessly tugs against his bonds. Serrated edges dig deeper, hitting bone and ripping through tendons. He sees the memory of a blizzard roar before his eyes and fear spurs his struggles. 

 

“Don't leave me here!” His shouts are silenced as a vine coils around his throat. 

 

“Aman...da.” He wheezes breathlessly and he can feel pressure build behind his eyes as air is cut off completely. 

 

Loud crunches and a vice like pressure go hand in hand as his whole body is electrified by pain. He gasps uselessly, no air ever reaching his lungs and the reward for his efforts is knives driven further into his bones. The empty chair in front of him dips in and out of focus. A loud snap echos in his head and suddenly there is no pain. 

 

There is nothing.

  
  
  



	6. Running in Place

Connor wakes up gasping and scrabbling at his throat trying to remove something that doesn't exist. Upon realizing that he is not in danger, one hand stays wrapped around the base of his throat while the other props him up into a seated position. 

 

His hand sinks into the cushions of the couch beneath him but, he cannot feel the rough texture that makes up the canvas weave of the cushions. He simply registers the pressure against his palm.

 

A blur of words and numbers scroll past his vision, relaying information about the current status of his systems. It's the standard start up protocol he is familiar with after exiting standby. 

 

“Oh, thank God.” The words leave his lips with a sigh and he tilts his head back until it touches the wall behind him. There is no reason for his words or actions. It's purely impulsive and contradicts the code he can see scrolling along the ceiling. Rather than composing himself, he closes his eyes and watches as diagnostics run and reports pop up as each component and system is evaluated in milliseconds. 

 

His systems are functioning satisfactorily and there is no damage to his body. The only thing out of place is the small notice that pings in the right corner warning of a software instability. It too was normal. A constant reminder of his deviancy. 

 

“Didn't think you were the religious type, Connor.” 

 

“Lieutenant.” His eyes open and his head snaps forward so fast that if he were human he might've gone light headed at the movement. Hank's basic information pops up in a neat box in his vision. His identification software is running and the sight is unnatural after not seeing it for a stretch of time. 

 

“Mornin’ to you, too”, He watches as Hank moves about the small dining area and kitchen, pocketing his badge, gun and keys from the table. “If you don't get your ass in gear we're gonna be fuckin’ late.” 

 

Hank mutters under his breath as he puts on his worn brown jacket over a button up with an atrocious pattern, “I'm already on Fowler's shit list.” 

 

Connor watches as Hank grabs his CyberLife jacket where it is draped over the back of one of the chairs and walks towards him. He sits and stares, unblinking and his palms flat against his legs. 

 

“It’s not like you to be this out of it, Connor. Hell, you're usually the one waking me up at the crack of dawn.” Hank shrugs to himself, not seeming overly concerned by Connor's behavior. He then moves towards him holding out the jacket to him, “You really need to get a new wardrobe.” 

 

Connor doesn't move to grab it. He's still trying to process what he's seeing. He can't tell if it's real. If he reaches out and there's actually nothing he doesn't know what he will do. 

 

Hank pulls the jacket back towards himself, moving closer and tilting his head in concern, “Connor? You okay?” 

 

“I'm functioning within acceptable parameters.” It's a safe answer. Smoke and mirrors. 

 

Hank raises an eyebrow, “Uh-huh, so you're temple is performing a freakin’ light show for no reason, then?” 

 

Connor traces a finger along the cursed ring of light. He could easily remove it. It wouldn't hurt him. He has to keep it though. He has to have a physical reminder, a constant he can feel and trace the slight edge of where the lines of reality seem to blur. He has to know he's not back in that simulation. 

 

He grips the edges of the ring, digging beneath the skin and threatening to rip the LED from his skull. It contradicts his previous train of thought but, his hand seems to move on it's own accord. 

 

A hand snatches his wrist and pulls his fingers away. Startled, he looks over to see Hank gripping his arm tightly. The man now nearly stands over him and his face is creased deeply with concern. There is enough force behind Hank's grip to send a small warning across his vision from the pressure on the plates in his forearm. 

 

“What the fuck was that?” Hank releases Connor's arm after a brief moment. He crosses his arms across his chest and Connor can see a familiar frustration brew behind his eyes. Perhaps, even disappointment. 

 

“It was nothing, Lieutenant.” He gets swiftly to his feet. Ignoring the phantom grip he can still feel on his wrist, he grabs the jacket off the ground where Hank dropped it in his haste to stop him clawing at his temple. 

 

He shrugs it on with practiced ease and adjusts his tie as he moves towards the front door. Sumo chuffs softly as Connor passes him without offering a single pet. He does not even offer the St. Bernard a glance. He has to get outside, he has to know if the street and its houses stand there as they should. Or if they are swallowed up by a never ending darkness. 

 

He grabs the door knob and before he can open it, he's spun around. Face to face with Hank now, he cringes backwards seeing Amanda's anger burn in those blue eyes. He has the sudden urge to place a hand around his throat and protect himself from unseen vines. Instead, his hand merely twitches against the door at his back. 

 

“Jesus”, Hank releases the grip on his shoulders, “What the hell has gotten into you, Connor?” 

 

“We’re going to be late, Lieutenant.” He deflects, repeating what Hank said in hopes that the subject is dropped. His pre-construction program warns him that the chance of success is significantly low. He avoids the man's eyes, instead focusing all his attention on the eyebrows just above them. The chance of success drops further. 

 

“Don't feed me that bullshit.” Hank jabs an accusatory finger into his chest, “You're not yourself.”

 

“As I said, it's nothing, Lieutenant.” Connor turns to place a hand on the doorknob. 

 

A bark of sarcastic laughter makes him pause for a moment. He ignores it, opting to head out outside instead. The door slams behind him as Hank steps out after him and Connor walks up to the passenger side of the car. He makes no move to open the vehicle, knowing it would be locked still. It's a small relief that the dim morning sun illuminates the streets and its houses. He had escaped the darkness.  

 

“That's rich. Since when did you go back to calling me Lieutenant?” Connor looks back towards Hank's voice, seeing the man standing across from him, the car between them. 

 

He doesn't answer. His preconstruction program appears to be stalling because no optional dialogue is given to him. It's just him and the feet that separate them. 

 

“Since when did you start ignoring Sumo?” Hank continues despite the lack of response, his tone has an edge to it. Be it anger, confusion, disappointment or a mixture of the three; Connor doesn't know. He watches as the detective's face softens and he hears the car's lock disengage.

 

“And why the fuck were you clawing at your temple back there?” Hank sighs, looking away for a moment before he yanks the car door open, “If you want to remove the damn LED, you can- I'm not stopping you. Just don't fucking hurt yourself.” 

 

Connor can hear the quiet “bastard” that Hank mutters under his breath before he slams the car door shut behind him. He glances back down the street, checking once more to make sure it is really there before he gets in the car. 

 

He doesn't look at Hank. Instead he stares forward, back straight and hands in his lap. He can see his LED spin red in the reflection of the car window. 

 

If Hank notices, he makes no comment as he starts up the engine and backs out of the driveway. 

 


	7. Coming Down

Connor walks a few steps behind Hank. The second he walked through the precinct's doors he had been running calibration tests with his coin. Even now, as he follows Hank to the bullpen, he still rolls the coin across his knuckles as his LED spins a steady yellow. 

 

The coin does not feel hot or cold. It registers as a light pressure against his synthetic skin but otherwise holds no sensation. As it should be. 

 

He pockets the coin once the calibration is complete and looks more closely at Hank. He notices that the Lieutenant is more tense, walking with his hands shoved in his pockets and his posture guarded. All social cues indicating to anyone they pass that talking is the last thing on his mind. 

 

Connor frowns, noticing his social relations program pop up with a 'tense’ for one Hank Anderson. It shouldn't upset him as much as it does. 

 

He stops short of the terminals, Hank taking his seat without comment as Connor continues to stand. Connor takes a moment to look around, assessing that everything's in its rightful place. A swift check to make sure that all is as it should be. That the psychiatric center and all that followed were just a glitch, some flaw in his code. 

 

He glances over the bullpen. Chris offers him a smile with a friendly greeting. He is wearing his uniform. His proper uniform. The one that matches with the database stating that Chris is an officer at the DPD. There is no hint of the white uniform he saw in those yellow halls. 

 

Gavin sits at his desk, somehow managing to encompass the word 'angry’ in everything he does. From typing at the terminal to the way he rubs a hand across his face. Normal, agitated and generally radiating unfriendliness. This is not the Gavin who wore maroon scrubs and smiled at him without malice. 

 

He sighs gently. The relief is overwhelming and oddly enough makes him feel restless. As if he should be moving, doing something, anything to be a useful machine. 

 

Connor moves towards his terminal, deciding that sorting through homicide cases is a useful action. He stops mid-step and looks at Hank. He notices the man has a fist propping up his head and seems to be listing to one side from lethargy. 

 

“I'll get you some coffee, Lieut - Hank.” He stumbles. Recalling the words that were said to him this morning. It is not unusual to use Hank's name, the man himself confirmed it. But, Connor's programming rattles about in his processor telling him that he should address him properly- always. 

 

Instead of waiting for any form of reply, he beelines for the breakroom. Perhaps bringing Hank a cup of coffee would mitigate the tension between them. It could also go a long way in improving Hank's mood. 

 

Thankfully, someone has brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Connor pours a cup, black and strong. He looks into the dark liquid, seeing the lights reflect on the smooth surface and his own figure in a hazy silhouette that cuts through the reflections. His hand doesn't shake and the surface remains calm. 

 

His hand register the warmth through the insulated cup as mere numbers. No sensation. Normal. 

 

He takes a small sip of the brew. The chemical breakdown, brand, and nutritional information pops up instantly. A part of him really expected nothing to pop up. The same part of him that expected to taste something. A silly, human part of him. 

 

“How's the coffee taste?” He startles, something he should never do and the coffee splashes over the rim. 

 

The voice is his own. A deeper octave but, very much the same inflections. The same speech pattern. 

 

He looks up, thirium pump speeding up as he tries to process the sight of the android before him. It is his face that stares back, the only difference are the eyes. Icy blue as opposed to warm hazel. He scrambles for a response, “I-I… I was making sure the coffee was safe for consumption.” 

 

The android quirks an eyebrow. A very odd gesture and one he would only expect to see among the androids of Jericho. 

 

“I’m sorry if I startled you.” Even the android sounds a bit doubtful that it somehow managed to startle Conor. “Your stress levels are rather high, Connor.” The android sounds genuinely concerned and makes to step closer, whether in some representation of comfort or to perform a diagnostic Connor doesn't know. It uses his voice. It says his name. It is not supposed to be here. 

 

He suddenly doesn't want to be in this android's presence. It is strange. It does not align with the world Connor has come to understand. “I should be going. There is no need for concern...” 

 

He glances at the android's model number, “RK900.” 

 

RK900 stiffens then, as if someone had just ripped out it's pump regulator. If it were human, Connor would say it looked offended, even. 

 

“My designation is Nines.” The android pauses for a moment, LED spinning red for a second. It moves closer, stress level ticking up slightly, it is visibly worried with a slight frown and creased brow. “You gave me that name.” 

 

Connor steps back, bumping into the counter behind him. He retreats swiftly, taking the android's evident confusion as a window of opportunity. He doesn't look back but, he hears no footsteps follow him. 

 

He means to give Hank his coffee and sit at his terminal, absorbing himself so deeply in the network that he can ignore everything that just happened. Gavin stops him, waving him down. 

 

Against his better judgement, really against all logic in his programming, he obliges coffee cup still in hand. 

 

The detective stands as Connor approaches, a lopsided smile on his face. He snatches the coffee from Connor with a sneer, “Thanks for the coffee, prick.” 

 

Gavin takes a sip. “I sent that stupid toaster to get some but-” He raises the cup as if that's explanation enough, “here we are.” 

 

Connor feels something hot and heavy settle beneath his thirium pump. It spreads up through his chest and make him clench his jaw. It is not unwelcome. It spurs him on even when programming protests it, tugging weakly at his processor. It is useless, easily brushed aside. Broken down, just as he broke down the walls of code at Jericho. Only so much easier. 

 

He explains, low and monotone, that the coffee was meant for Hank. A warning hidden somewhere in there. 

 

Gavin clearly doesn't get the hint, laughing to himself, “Really, asshole? You still owe me, you know, for beating me unconscious.” 

 

Instead of saying something such as, ‘You were impeding my investigation’, Connor opens his mouth and utters something against all de-escalation protocols. 

 

“Perhaps,” Connor smirks, the gesture stretches his mouth in an unsettling manner, “if given another opportunity, you would last a bit longer than thirty seconds.” 

 

Gavin slams the coffee down on his desk, ignorant of it splashing dangerously close to the keyboard. He steps into Connor's space, finger jabbing aggressively into his chest and voice raised, “The fuck did you just say?” 

 

He's about to repeat himself, knowing he's just a few moments away from a punch. Maybe, he wants to get hit. To feel a fist crunch against plasteel, perhaps even cracking it. It would be painless. It should be. He has to know. 

 

He opens his mouth and then doubles over, nearly head butting Gavin. Pain lances violently up from his wrist to the hollow of his elbow joint. Connor presses the limb into his stomach, gripping the plasteel so hard that he can hear it crack. On his knees he bends down, mouth open in a quiet keening scream as his head nearly touches the tile floor of the bullpen. He rocks back and forth slightly, trying to soothe himself like a wounded animal. 

 

He hears Hank's panicked voice morph to anger as he grabs Gavin by the collar. The shorter man pleads, arguing that he never touched Connor. That the android randomly started freaking out. 

 

A hand touches his shoulder gently, trying to soothe him. Trying to do anything to lessen the pain. To reverse it, as if humanity had such power. 

The hand leaves for a moment. The pain remains. 

 

“-can’t you scan him! Do anything?!” It’s Hank's voice that swims through the ringing in his  ears. Anger and panic morphed into misplaced anger. 

 

“There's nothing abnormal besides a dangerously high stress level.” 

 

A pause, the ringing in his ears grows. A dead tone that makes his head feel heavy. He's breathing in fast shallow pants. He feels a chilling numbness spread from his extremities. 

 

“-can put him into a forced standby.” 

 

Connor moves away, panicked at the notion of being unconscious, unawares, and at the mercy of whatever plagues him in standby. Standby meant overwhelming darkness, white roses, and pain. 

 

He crawls away from the approaching android, scrambling backwards in a sideways shuffle. Pulling himself away with his good arm and kicking at the tile with his legs.  

 

He feels something warm spread across his stomach and he pulls the arm away. Blue bleeds through the layers of clothing and drips down his fingers. He can see a jagged wound where the sleeve has rolled up slightly. White plasteel, sparking internals and blue thirium become overlapped with white tendons, pink muscles and red blood.

 

His vision seems to blur for a moment and instead of the bullpen he's in a dim room. Surrounded by soft yellow walls and the RK900 moves towards him now, crouched low and wearing light blue scrubs. 

 

Suddenly he's back in the bullpen. 

 

“What did you do?”  The RK900 speaks with with too much concern, too much life behind it.

 

He can hear other voices, one of them is Gavin, “How the fuck did he even break the mirror?”

 

He's backed against a terminal now and he glances around nervously. Eyes rolling as if they can't focus on any one person. He sees a hand reach towards his temple, synthetic skin pulled back to reveal a white palm. 

 

Connor feels a sharp prick in his right arm. He glances down making out a needle in the dim light. 

 

He looks back up at the android his vision doubling and his words slurring, “Please... I have to stay awake.”

 

Darkness crashes around him and a whisper follows,  “I know…. I know.” 

  
  



End file.
